


Ghosts that Linger

by Tattered_Dreams



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Brief mention of suicide attempt, Brutality, Coma, Death, Death of Original Characters, Euthanasia, Gen, Gore, Grieving, Guns, Injury, Language, PTSD, Posthumous Character, Swearing, Trauma, Trigger Warnings, Triggers, Violence, Weapons, a look into the crapshoot world that is the Scorch, children handling weapons, comatose person, discussion of death and euthanasia, experiment in writing, harsh reality, hooo boy, its not a nice easy or good place, serious ethic and moral questions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-31 11:17:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12131304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tattered_Dreams/pseuds/Tattered_Dreams
Summary: On the journey to destroy WCKD, Thomas' group takes temporary refuge with a camp in the Scorch and he finds himself a witness to the fate of a total stranger. Movie-verse. Set between TST and TDC.*Read notes inside before story*Rated somewhere between T and M. Difficult themes (ethics and death) and some possibly graphic violence.





	1. A Stranger's Story

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the following so that you're fully aware of what you're going into. If any of the warnings or notes upset or bother you, please do not force yourself to continue.  
> 1\. This is movie-verse, using the film's continuity, pacing and version of events. It mainly happens a few months after TST and before TDC begins (assuming, as Wes Ball has said, that a year passes between the two).  
> 2\. It is not a light story (though some moments may be). It is a short story primarily written to explore the harshness of Dashner's world. If you're familiar with my other TMR fanfic, you know I like realism and this world fascinates me. This story was an experiment in narration, tone and development and a study on the impact of death, grief and choices. Like Eden Switch, this is primarily about people. It looks at a number of themes and topics surrounding death and difficult decisions. If any of the tags are upsetting, don't force yourself to stay.  
> 3\. It is told in present tense, third person limited narration. It was a bit of an exploration in story writing tools (this is expanded in notes at the end). Thomas tells the story but it isn't really about him. I know OCs don't always go down well, but I hope that won't put you off giving it a try. The point of this is to expand the world by showing you strangers, and how the Scorch is affecting them, not just the people you already know.  
> 4\. Finally:
> 
> This story was written with two endings. Both of them were always going to be written and neither one is correct or official over the other. There will be 3 chapters total - the endings posted separately from the point they diverge.
> 
> The question I really want to ask (and would love anyone to answer) is - which ending do you prefer and why?

It takes weeks from when they first receive the fragmented radio transmission before they reach the landmark that identifies the camp.

There are no seasons in the Scorch, but it has been months since the fire fight with WCKD in the mountains. Months since Ava Paige, Jansen and Teresa took to the sky with Sonya, Minho and so many others. Living day to day is weary and hard earned, but purpose drives them forwards.

It’s been nearly as long since they last knew of a thriving community in the burned out wasteland. So when they heard the transmission, the decision was easy. Just a few days to recuperate, re-supply and reassure themselves they were not the last ones left.

…

“We’re so glad you’re here,” Lili says, giving them a watery smile. “It’s been so long since Jorge sent the message…we weren’t sure you were all going to make it.”

Thomas glances to his right, shares a look with Newt. He can tell from the steady, shuttered look in his brown eyes that they’re on the same page, as usual. This place may seem welcoming and friendly, but they have to be careful as always, at least for now. Trust is either fire-forged or hard won these days. And they don’t know these people.

Thomas swallows and looks back up at the woman who introduced herself as Lili.

She looks wan and stressed; her dark hair greying prematurely at the temples and sun-bleached at the ends. She’s wearing a motley assortment of what seems to be typical Scorch clothes, just like everyone else they’ve come across in this barren world. They consist of whatever threadbare, fraying and available apparel can be found that sort of fits; whatever covers enough to protect your skin from turning raw and blistering under the heat.

Thomas then silently takes stock of this new encampment.

They’ve taken over what remains of a lopsided factory that was destroyed by more than the desert pouring in. It may have even been bombed. One wall is almost entirely missing, the edges ragged and crumbling, exposing rebar and rusting pipe work. The area is littered with stone and rubble; the smallest the size of a football and the largest bigger than an average car, dust, steel pipes and eroded pieces of machinery cleared back only where people have to regularly walk. The open side leads straight into a high street that has been constructed from crudely made tents, lining a sandy strip. Dust billows between the flaps, the sun beating down, and people shuffle around between the forlorn structures, going about their chores.

Lili has come to greet them, but behind her a thriving community bustles about. The oldest member looks to be a pensioner and Thomas spots a small boy who can’t be older than six go running from a mangled, metal fire escape and into the bright sunlight of the outdoor camp.

While he’s taking it in, Lili has been observing right back.

“You’re Thomas, aren’t you?” she asks him.

There’s that spark of hope in her eyes that Thomas has started to recognise in the people who meet him. He first saw it in Vince, when Mary announced he had been their source – but he hadn’t recognised it then. And now he sort of wishes he didn’t. It feels like a weight – an expectation – too heavy for him to bear.

But he nods, once.

“You’re hurt,” she says.

He’d forgotten.

“There was an attack, leaving the city limit,” Jorge says from behind them. His voice is rough, like the words have to scrape their way out. “We got free, but a few of them were beaten up by the rubble.”

“Anyone infected?”

“No,” Jorge answers, and it’s a strong, absolute response. No one even makes a whisper of a movement behind Thomas, and he knows that no one even glanced Brenda’s way to betray her condition. Technically she isn’t infected at the moment anyway.

Lili just nods.

“Come this way. Our first stop is the infirmary – its no WCKD Medic bay, but we have supplies.”

Thomas feels eyes turn to him, seeking guidance. He can feel Newt’s and Frypan’s like a familiar weight, trying to gauge his expression; Brenda’s burn into his back. Jorge is patient but hopeful, Vince wary. The others all kind of blend together, expectant and uncertain.

But he’s no leader. Not really. He doesn’t want these people’s lives on his shoulders just as much as he does need their help – so he steps towards Lili without acknowledging they’re waiting on him.

They follow anyway.

Lili turns to walk with him, and they trudge, weary and aching away from the slanting light from the broken gap, further into the factory.

The old machinery is still intact in some places; great pipes and levers that take up space and line the stone sides. In other places, the piping is riddled with bullet holes, rusty equipment smeared with old, flaked blood and metal framework crushed underneath chunks of rock the size of cars.

The walk isn’t a great distance. Finally they stop in a shadowy corridor where Lili points out another missing wall. This one has been covered by a huge, heavy tarpaulin that has a flap cut into it. There’s a halo of golden, glowing light around the edges which tells them that this goes back outside, too. Dust motes are ignited in the dark hall from the sliver of the desert beyond.

Lili strides over and pulls back the flap, gesturing them onward. “Go ahead.”

It’s more weariness than trust, but Thomas ducks inside.

The infirmary is a huge tent made from a patchwork of fabrics that are secured against another part of the factory. The weight of the tarps cause a drape to the slanted roof and the burning sun glows through so that the air inside feels stuffy and golden.

There’s an assortment of old camping cots, duct-taped air mattresses and palettes softened by scrap cloth for the patients to lay on. While it is definitely no WCKD medical centre - thankfully lacking that distinctly ‘you’re never leaving here alive’ feel - they do seem to have accumulated a decent amount of usable equipment. Cabinets with dented sides, steel tables with broken wheels and floor standing lamps. They’re all clustered in the middle, ready for emergencies.

A middle aged man two beds down is having his arm put into a sling and on the other side a mother soothes a lanky pre-teen girl as her ankle is wrapped in cloth.

There’s only one other bed occupied, and Thomas’ eyes are drawn to the stillness there.

His steps falter, and he finds himself moving over slower than before. He can’t feel the pressing of the others at his back anymore as he moves between the beds, leaving them warily clustered near the entrance.

The girl has been laid down on her back, and her chest just barely rises and falls with each breath. There’s no movement under her eyelids, her fingers don’t twitch.

Despite the blank, serene expression, she looks like a broken bird. One arm rests along her body, upturned with a cannula providing fluids from a drip bag suspended next to her by what looks like a twisted banister rail. A thin plastic tube rests across her face, arranged just under her nose and feeds up from a dirt-smudged compression tank that says ‘Oxygen’. The other arm is cast across her stomach, like someone dropped it in a hurry. She can’t be any older than the Gladers – eighteen at best – with a slim build and long sunny hair that it looks like someone’s been brushing for her.

“That’s Claire.”

Lili’s voice is right behind him, and Thomas realises he’s walked the length of the tent and is stood at the end of the small cot. Behind them, the group are taking seats on the empty beds, slowly remembering and taking notice of their cuts and grazes.

“What happened to her?” Thomas asks. His voice cracks as he speaks, scratches against the roof of his mouth; it’s been a while since he used it for anything other than panicked screams and shouts.

Lili sinks onto the cramped cot by Claire’s legs, taking the slack hand that rested across her waist. There’s no response. Her fingers are delicate and pale, clean under the fingernails. But there are small, healing scratches and scars around the knuckles and a callus on the thumb; she’s not a stranger to work. There’s a patch of shiny, pink skin just curling around the edge of her hand by the little finger.

She was burned.

“Cranks attacked one of our raiding parties. Claire and Flynn had just found a group of people hiding out in one of the wrecks. They got them out, but they were being chased. Flynn won’t talk about it much – he just comes in here to sit with her. I don’t really know what happened, but he said she turned back to hold them off; set off a bomb and it took her down in the fallout.

“She never woke up.”

Thomas’ eyes turn from the still girl to Lili, hearing the tremor in her voice. Before he can ask, Lili forces a smile through the tears in her eyes and nods up at him.

“She saved three lives and she has no idea. Flynn carried her back.”

“When did she…?”

“Nearly two weeks ago,” Lili says. It comes out barely above a whisper, a touch fearful, like saying it aloud is admitting it.

And Thomas gets it.

With the limited supplies to hand, and even the newer technology ravaged by the Scorch, this camp just can’t hope to support a comatose patient long term. If she doesn’t wake up soon, she really never will. They just don’t have any other options.

Lili’s gaze is full of a heartbreaking gravity.

She knows this just as well as him – maybe more. “Connor won’t let anyone pull the drip out,” she says. And it’s not an explanation, but at the same time, it is.

She sets down Claire’s hand, resting it back at her side.

Thomas’ eyes are drawn back down to the lick of black stained into the pale skin and he sinks onto the bed next to hers, reaching out for her wrist before he’s processed it.

The sweater she’s wearing has worn soft; a dense wool that looks oversized on her frame and is easily brushed up her arm, out of the way.

Lili just gives a sad smile as the tattoo comes into view.

It’s a set of five musical bars that run up the inside of her forearm, littered not with notes, but with tiny bird silhouettes. The lines run alongside the tendons until they flare apart like the strings have been snapped, setting the birds free; some inked in flight, wing tips reaching towards the inside of her elbow.

“She’s always had it,” Lili says without being prompted, almost like she’s wanted someone there to tell. “Said it meant something to her, but she never told me what. There’s so much about her I don’t know – I just know she’s quick and she’s smart and she was always effective.”

“You don’t think she’ll wake up,” Thomas says, speaking to the tattoo, eyes on the birds still perched on the bars.

Lili’s breath catches. “I think the longer it takes, the worse it gets, but I don’t know what else to do. Eventually, it’ll be…kinder…to let her…”

Lili doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t have to.

Thomas nods stiffly.

“Who is Connor?”

There’s a second of silence, and Thomas looks up, only to realise he’s surprised the woman.

“You said Connor won’t let anyone remove the drip,” he prompts.

Lili opens her mouth, but before she says anything, there’s a shout from behind them.

Ice bolts through Thomas’ spine, tension rippling across his shoulders and he drops Claire’s arm, twisting around, fingers reaching to his hip without conscious thought and skimming the warm metal of the .22 gun holstered there.

But they’re not being attacked.

There’s a young boy racing down the infirmary towards them; the same boy Thomas spotted when they arrived – he looks barely six; both too full of life and irreparably haunted by it. His skin is tanned and freckled by the Scorch, his hair dark and curling against his neck. He wields a blunted toy sword, made from slotted together pieces of plywood, probably designed for his tiny size, and he skids to a stop when he’s put himself between Claire’s still body and Thomas.

He’s so small but his chest is puffed out and he scowls with none of the playfulness you’d expect in a child his age. His eyes are fierce with defiance and determination even as they shine with tears he won’t cry and his hand shakes on his sword.

“No!” he says, loud enough for some of the Gladers to look over uncertainly. Vince looks nothing short of affronted. “No, you can’t! Lili, you _can’t_!”

“Hush, Sweetie,” Lili soothes him, placing a hand on his shoulder that is both comforting and authoritative. “We’re not doing anything.” She looks over at Thomas. “This is Connor. Connor, this is Thomas; I was just telling him about Claire. We’re not here to hurt her.”

“You were touching her,” Connor accuses.

Yeah, he was. He’s not sure how to explain that – not sure what the accusation actually is.

Thank God for Lili. “Just like you and Flynn and me and the others,” she says. “To say hello. You know the Doc said interacting will help her.”

Connor keeps dark eyes fixed on Thomas for a moment, apparently trying to find some proof that Lili is telling the truth. But then his grip loosens on the sword and he deflates.

“Oh,” he says, quietly. “Okay.”

Now totally uncaring of Thomas’ presence, Connor hops onto the cot and pats Claire’s hand himself.

“Hi, Claire,” he whispers to her. “I helped mom get all the canteens down to the camp before dark, so she said I could come and see you again. I was with Flynn earlier – he’s going to teach me how to fight Cranks like you when I’m older. He says you’d teach me to be sneaky better than he could, so you have to wake up before I’m ten. That’s when he’s going to start.”

Connor’s whisper glows with pride and anticipation, totally oblivious to the fact that Claire has a few days in which to wake up, not years.

His monologue continues – telling her about his day, his chores, other people at the camp and then about the new arrivals. Lili gently guides Thomas away. He goes willingly.

“Have you told him?” Thomas asks in an undertone, suddenly feeling bone weary and broken hearted for the boy. The scene of the child speaking so eagerly to the comatose girl churns his stomach with second-hand dread.

Lili sighs and nods. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve said it, his mother has, and Flynn’s tried, too. But he’s just a kid. He’s clinging to hope. It’ll crush him, but while we have a bit of time, I don’t want to take that away, too.”

“Is he her brother?” Thomas asks, glancing back at the pair.

They don’t look alike. Connor has an olive complexion, dark hair and a broad little nose and chin that will probably mature into a strong face, if he’s given that chance. Claire is the opposite with her cream skin, sunshine blonde hair and soft features. But that doesn’t say much; they could each take after the opposite parent.

“No,” Lili says. “He’s one of the lives she saved. Flynn and Claire found Connor, his mother and four others hiding out. From what Flynn said, Claire pulled Connor literally out of the hands of a Crank, passed him to his mom and pushed them through a door before she blew the bomb. I’d say it’s a small case of hero worship.”

Lili looks back at them, too. “It’s sad,” she continues. “He never really knew her. He just has a lightning memory of a guardian angel that saved his life and gave hers for it.”

“Well,” Thomas says, both gentle but wan; optimism he can’t quite believe. “She hasn’t given it yet.”

Lili gives him a smile that is sad and sympathetic. It tells him not to fall prey to the same hope that dug its claws into Connor.

He’s not at the same emotional place where the boy is. Claire is just a face to him – a name and a story – but it’s the first time he’s encountered anything like it.

It’s easy to block it all out when they’re living how he is. It’s just long journeys, raiding abandoned buildings for supplies, keeping watch and moving on. Running and defending themselves whenever they hit a Crank nest. The same group of them have stuck together over the last months – everyone who was left behind in the mountains after WCKD took Minho.

It’s only when they find other pockets of resistance across the Scorch that they remember what it’s like to live in a community. It’s a different way of life, if you could call it that, and in some ways, it’s far more devastating.

At least if they’re attacked, everyone is together.

This camp send out raiding parties for supplies, which means if something goes wrong, the others may not get closure. They may never see their friends again. Or they may see them again, but still never get a goodbye.

Thomas isn’t sure which is worse.

“Come on,” Lili prompts. “Let’s get you checked over.”

Thomas let’s himself be moved to a palette back near the others.

By some miracle, he’s barely scratched up; just a couple of grazes on his hands and a cut over his brow that’s long stopped bleeding. Newt has a cut and yellowing bruise on his cheekbone, Frypan has to have rubble washed out of his knee and Vince has a broken finger splinted. Doc is a guy named Spence, who checks them efficiently and without fuss.

Instead of taking up beds in the infirmary for such small things, they follow Lili back through the factory to a wide room that’s been set up as a mess hall. There’s bent, lopsided tables, stone slabs and picnic mats laid out with people even using the large bits of rubble for more tables or seating. Bits of iron, wood and concrete have been reworked into a serving counter that runs down one wall.

Lili announces them.

Whispers and cheers break out around the hall. A tall black man in probably his thirties approaches first. He’s wearing combat trousers with a patched jacket and two days of stubble, a semi automatic rifle thrown over his back and the strap lined with new bullets. He walks up to them to hand out a stack of trays.

“Make yourselves at home,” he says. His voice is both deep and scratchy, and he seems slightly shy and reserved, but his smile is tentatively friendly. “Kids eat first, then the sick, pregnant and elderly. After that it’s free for all. We’re doing well, though – not had a shortage of chow for months. It’s late, so go right ahead. Get some food down you and I can show you to some bunks. Oh, and I’m Jobe.”

Vince seems to have taken back his leadership position, something Thomas is more than happy about, so he shakes hands and introduces them.

Jobe heads back to his group – five more guys ranging from a kid in late teens to someone who has to be around Vince’s age – and joins them on a checked and dirt-smudged picnic mat. The group of them all have that hardened, weary look and wear combat trousers, an assortment of rifles sit close to their sides.

Thomas is going to guess they’re one of the raiding parties. And he’d also bet that they’re still carrying guns off duty because they’ve learned to be wary of strangers in camp. Just as they weren’t asked to let go of their weapons, Thomas can’t begrudge them the same reservations.

Vince looks around at their group. Thomas only looks for Newt and Frypan. He cares about the others – months defending each other, how could he not? – but those two are all he has left of the Maze, and with Minho stuck in WCKD, he wants to hold onto that.

Thankfully he doesn’t seem to be alone. They slide up next to him. Newt pats his shoulder and then they make their way for the food counter. Brenda and Harriet fall into step behind them.

…

Having a full night’s sleep feels like a foreign experience.

Thomas wakes up feeling so well rested he’s almost exhausted. Someone’s set a huge duffel of fresh clothes in the tent with them, so once they’re all up, they pick out what they think will fit each of them best and trek for the showers.

They’re nothing special. Kind of like the ones in the glade; it’s clean water, but tepid at best and with only gravity to power it. But there’s crudely made soap that almost burns through dirt and the experience gets rid of days of grime.

Frypan was told to return to the infirmary to have his knee checked over again, and possibly consider stitches, so Thomas and Newt find Jobe in the mess hall to get a guide back to the medic’s tent.

They duck inside, and Thomas finds his eyes drawn to the bed in the corner again.

Claire’s still there. She’s still unmoving, but there’s a new person at her side.

“I’ll just be a second,” Thomas says quietly, patting Fry’s shoulder.

“Here we go,” he thinks Newt mutters as he heads away from them.

Thomas doesn’t reply.

The person, clearly male, perched on the cot next to Claire’s is curled forwards, elbows resting on his legs and he’s murmuring quietly to her. The hand that everyone seems to pick up is pressed reverently between both of his larger ones. He doesn’t even notice Thomas until he’s standing just three feet away.

Then his head snaps up, hazel eyes flickering with surprise and reproach.

He has light brown hair cut short, stubble on his jaw and an old scar across the bridge of his nose. He looks like someone who probably smiled a lot. His skin is dark from the sun, though it looks like it used to be pale, and there are calluses around his fingers.

Thomas recognises them. They’re from holding a gun. He’s just starting to get his own.

“Can I help you?”

The boy’s voice comes out a little hoarse. Thomas guesses he can’t be much older than himself or Claire, and for no reason, he thinks he knows who this is.

“You’re Flynn, right?”

He looks up, taken aback, then nods resolutely. “Yes. And you are?”

“Thomas. We arrived yesterday.”

“From the Mountain Attack,” Flynn says, apparently connecting the dots. He’s been told about them. Flynn sits straighter but he doesn’t let Claire’s hand go. “Jobe told us about the message, but no one heard anything for so long…glad you made it.”

Thomas shrugs. What can he say to that? But he nods towards Claire instead.

“You were with her?”

Flynn’s breath rushes out heavily. “Yeah. Did Lili tell you?”

Thomas sinks carefully onto the far end of Flynn’s cot. “Yeah. Said you were raiding together; found people. She set off a bomb so you could escape.”

Flynn nods. His hands squeeze around the girl’s. “Jobe, Claire, Kimmi, Dale and I; we’ve been a team for a long while now. She’s always been the reckless one. Well, no. Claire’s…she thinks risks are worth it.”

“She saved a kid – Connor,” Thomas says. “Maybe she’s onto something.”

Flynn barks a bitter laugh. It sounds warped and wrong; like he’s not usually a bitter person but he’s losing himself. “Connor, his mom and me. Slammed that door so the blow out wouldn’t fry us.”

He hasn’t got any real context for this, but his mind pictures a steel door like something he might have seen in WCKD. His imagination can supply the fireball expanding outwards and sending tremors deep into the foundations of a nameless building.

“How come she wasn’t burned up?”

The question falls out without sanction. He didn’t mean to ask. But now he’s burning with the curiosity of it. How is she in one piece?

Flynn tenses. His shoulders curl forwards again. “Because we haven’t been punished enough, apparently.”

And that…that’s not an answer.

He remembers abruptly that Flynn never actually talked about it. He shouldn’t have asked. But maybe he’s a bit reckless, too.

“What do you mean?”

Flynn sighs with aggravation. “Because if she’d burned up back there, at least she’d be gone. She’d be free. But she didn’t, and she’s not. She’s stuck here – maybe aware, maybe not, and there’s nothing we can do but wait and wait and eventually choose to let her die without knowing if she wants to go or if she wants us to hang on just one more goddamn day.”

Flynn’s eyes snap to him, fiery with a desperately sad fury.

Apparently he found the floodgates.

“She slammed a door – an old fire door. There was a bar lock so I couldn’t even open it to go back for her. I screamed at her to open it. And she stared at me through the glass…shook her head, held up that fucking detonator and ran back the way we came. The Cranks forgot about us, went after her. She ran in an elevator shaft and blew the centre pillar out.

“The explosion made the door smoke. The smell of burning bodies was everywhere. The floor dropped; the ceiling caved in and a whole wall crushed dozens of cranks. I watched her get hit in the head with a huge piece of shrapnel and go down. The building fell on her before the fire could take her.

“Connor was screaming. His mom was in shock. Hell, we were all in shock. But it blew the door off its hinges, so I went back for her.”

And Thomas knows the rest; which is fortunate, because that’s where Flynn’s voice fails him, and otherwise the suspense would be killing him. He doesn’t know how one man – not much older than him, if at all, was able to dig someone from a collapsed, burning building, but that doesn’t seem important.

Flynn is quiet for a moment, muscle shifting in his forearms as he squeezes Claire’s hand, and then he continues, more subdued. “She was treated for some awful bruising, lots of cuts and scrapes, a dislocated knee, and the head injury bled a lot, but now…as far as we can tell…she’s perfectly healthy. She’s just not awake.”

It’s with that, that Thomas thinks he truly understands Flynn’s pain. Other than the coma, Claire is fully recovered. It might have been easier to make the call to remove the cannula and mouth pipe if she were truly broken beyond repair.

“I’m sorry, Man,” Thomas offers quietly.

“Not your fault,” Flynn says. “Not anyone’s faul- well. I guess it’s someone’s. I just…this is as close as I’ll get to a goodbye, you know?”

He knows it’s different, but his mind can’t help jumping to Minho and how that was so fast, so devastating, and he never got his goodbye, either. He didn’t get to keep his promise. Instead all he could do was watch and scream as his friend was carried away. He nods in empathy.

Flynn’s eyes dim with compassion and neither of them has to say anything. They both understand loss and grief, even if the circumstances are uniquely their own.

“I’m worried about Connor,” Flynn says. “Lili, too.”

He’s right to be, Thomas thinks.

“Jobe just says that he’s strong. This’ll make him stronger; he’ll grow from it, maybe it’ll inspire him.” There’s that bitter tone again. Like Claire’s death inspiring someone is a nasty thought, purely because she had to be gone for it to happen. “I think he’s lucky he didn’t really know her.”

Something suddenly occurs to Thomas.

“Are you two…?”

Flynn shakes his head before he can finish. “No. Not…neither of us ever felt that way. Kimmi and I – I guess I’m into brunettes.” There’s the ghost of something fond in his tone before his eyes cloud again, gazing into Claire’s still features. “Claire’s my best friend.”

Thomas is starting to feel glad he didn’t know her, either.

He really had forgotten – what it felt like to be a part of something big, where you thrived together and mourned together.

He looks over his shoulder to deal with the silence. Frypan’s knee is being wrapped in gauze. Newt catches his eye and shoots him a questioning look.

Thomas shakes his head.

“Lili says you never told anyone,” Thomas mutters, slowly bringing his attention off his friends. “Why me?”

“You’re one of the first who didn’t act like I owed you the explanation, even if you wanted to hear it,” Flynn shrugs. “And I guess it’s easier to tell someone you don’t really know – someone who didn’t know her. Everyone else…they ask about it but they’re already looking at me like they’re waiting for me to break – become a ghost right along with her.”

…

Their first full day at the camp winds to a close. It’s late before the sun falls behind the mountains, and the last of the long golden light and purple shadows fade into a peacefully cool night.

The mess hall empties out, and families group instead down the street of tents. Smaller children run between the adults as they play games of tag. The teenagers cluster in groups at the edges, talking quietly, wiring a stick of dynamite to an old, beat up toaster and sitting around a fire while one of them strums on a guitar.

Jobe strides over to the group with the toaster before they can light the fuse and snatches the stick from them, sending them off without explosives or appliances.

He jams the stick in his jeans pocket, swigs at his beer and heads back to his friends like disarming teenagers is just part of the daily experience.

It probably is.

This is a different world to Thomas’.

He remembers fragments of a world before WCKD – not much and nothing connected with his own life – but he remembers the advanced technology, the world falling back into the desert. He was born into a world touched by the Sun Flares but the only one he knows is a wooded glade inside a maze and more than his share of suffering.

Even in a world of blistering heat, advancement at a standstill - if not a decline - and with Cranks at every turn, these people were never taken by WCKD.

They’ve grown up with their families.

They have a room for schooling, extra lessons to suit this damaged world, as well as things like Math and Science that had a place in the one that was. Parents hang out, kids have sleepovers, more kids are being born and the elderly cared for.

It all hits Thomas at once, sitting in the sand by a quiet tent with Frypan and watching Newt, Jorge and Brenda gather up drinks.

It makes him ache.

He’d never give up his fight. Not while they still had Minho. He has to finish this. But after that…what then? He’s flying by his pants day to day and made no plans for his future beyond putting a bullet in Ava Paige’s head.

But now he’s thinking he’d like to come back here.

Bring Minho. He should see it. And he will, because the alternatives are too terrible to consider.

He’s still taking in the night when a tiny boy races from around the nearby tent and skids to a stop in front of Thomas and Frypan.

Connor. Even with the sky quickly turning black over their heads and the camp lit by flaming torches, Connor’s freckles stand out on his cheeks. His little fingers grip tightly to a dark tablet that he holds against his chest.

“You’re Thomas, aren’t you?” he asks plainly.

Frypan glances at him with thinly veiled expectancy and confusion.

“Yeah,” Thomas manages to say, though his voice is more of a croak. “Connor, right?”

He nods. He holds out the tablet in his hands and Thomas realises it’s a screen, somehow intact and undamaged. Its also fairly recent technology with the reflective panel not unlike those he’s seen in the WCKD compounds.

“Flynn gave me this,” Connor says. “Because I didn’t know Claire before. It helps.”

Thomas doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s not mourning for the unconscious blonde in the same way this little boy is.

Instead, he takes the tablet, working up a sympathetic smile, and brushes his thumb over the mirror-like surface.

It glows with a blue light before the image forms; somewhat grainy and with the colour leached, like it’s been recorded in sepia. Claire stands on a flat salt bed not far from a tan, sand coated Jeep with shredded camouflage fabric twisted around the roll bar. It seems like a candid shot – the ground tilted at an angle on the screen and the blonde is giving the camera a slightly exasperated smile as she hoists a rifle over a shoulder.

Thomas just takes her in for a second, trying to make Connor feel he’s being respectful, but then the little boy leans closer.

“It won’t start until you press play,” he says sagely.

Frypan chuckles. Thomas shoots him the briefest of withering looks before levelling a puzzled gaze on the boy.

This is a video?

Connor jams one of his little fingers on a symbol in a corner.

The grainy image shudders, like someone losing their grip on the camera, and then the stretch of sandy ground levels on the screen.

“Flynn, I swear to God, if you waste that battery before we get it back to the Fort, I will fire a bullet up your ass,” the Claire in the video says. She sounds somewhere between amused and dead serious.

“What a waste of good ammunition,” Flynn replies. His voice is recognisable even through the hidden microphone.

Apparently this is good technology.

“And besides, it’s got one of those newfangled ‘you’ll be in a care home before I run out of life’ battery packs in it. How about you just say ‘hi’ to the video?”

“Nope,” Claire calls over her shoulder, striding away.

The camera jostles as Flynn follows her.

“Claire-Bear!” he whines.

Just steps from the jeep, she wheels on him. The rifle swings from her shoulder and smoothly into her hands with an ease that speaks of practice and familiarity. She levels the sight on the camera and raises an eyebrow.

“It’s off, it’s off!” Flynn says hastily. The screen falls black.

Before Thomas can look up or hand back the tablet, it comes to life again. He’s dimly aware that Frypan has leant in to watch, too, all trace of amusement gone from his face.

The screen shows the inside of a tent in the dark. The only light comes from a dying glow stick between two sleeping bags, and it’s just strong enough to reveal a sagging ceiling and three hunched shapes.

A rustling and a low croaking sound echoes through the speaker, but it sounds distant. Like noises outside the tent.

“What the fuck was that?” Jobe’s voice is recognisable, too. It’s a low, tight whisper and one of his hands reaches down the side of his bag. When he lifts it, blue light shines dully off of a crowbar.

“Your imagination,” Flynn’s voice replies. “Everyone go back to sleep and chill. Everyone’s just on edge because we’re not far from that town.”

There’s another rustle that follows his words.

This time it’s Claire, identifiable by the long blue-silver braid against the shadows. She slides away from her sleeping bag and scoops up a machete without making a sound. The camera pitches just slightly in order to follow her.

“Oh, great,” Flynn mutters. “That’s just great. Claire, go to sleep.”

She scoffs quietly, attention fixed on the intermittent noises outside. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Yeah, that never goes well,” Jobe whispers. “Damn, Flynn. Now she’s gonna leave just to spite you, Man.”

“Then you tell her,” Flynn retorts. “What’s she going to do? Its pitch black out there; she’s going to hack the tent to shreds and then we’ll have to sleep in the truck. I don’t want to sleep in the truck – the wheel arch digs into my back.”

“You are such a fucking child,” Claire says, before Jobe can open his mouth.

But she sets down the machete and instead leans out of the shot. When she sits up again, she’s holding a handgun.

“What the hell, Girl?” Jobe says. “Was that under your pillow?”

“Yep,” Claire replies. She slips out the magazine, checks it and slams it back up before springing back the slide and crawling towards the front of the tent.

“Claire, get the fuck back in your bag,” Flynn whisper-yells after her. “I’d rather you hack up the tent than shoot us all.”

In response, she clicks on a tiny flashlight which she holds over the sightline of the gun with her free hand. The flare of white light throws the expression on her face into view despite the grainy recording – a focused but largely unconcerned look. Then she ducks out of the tent.

“Great,” Flynn mutters. The image of the tent whirls, and then Flynn’s face fills the screen, features set into exasperation that’s just visible in the dim lighting. He’s still folded in his own bag. “We’re all going to die. Claire’s going to shoot us.”

Flynn starts humming. It’s just possible to hear the faint noises from outside.

Thomas isn’t sure exactly when he got invested, but when the flap rustles – the image quickly whirling back to the tent again – and Claire drops back inside, his grip on the tablet relaxes. Feeling tense is irrational – he knows that. He knows the others are fine and that Claire didn’t get injured until later. But he can’t help it.

And he’s not wholly sure showing Connor these is helping more than giving him something to mourn. And that’s before he considers all the swearing in it.

“Are we all about to die?”

“Imminently,” she snarks back. There’s the sound of the handgun having the safety put on and then the thud as she tosses it onto the ground. She sinks down after it.

“Cranky,” Flynn chides.

Claire muffles a snort of laughter into her sleeping bag.

“You two…I don’t know how you even put up with each other,” Jobe mutters. “What was the noise, anyway?”

“Wind,” Claire confesses. “It’s blowing the sand around pretty bad, and it’s causing that groaning noise where it’s getting stuck in the truck. But no cranks.”

“You are so paranoid,” Flynn mutters.

“Stop recording our imminent deaths and go back to sleep,” Claire says.

“Oi!” Flynn retorts, a snappy whisper that’s non-the-less filled with amusement. “Why should I listen to you when you don’t listen to me?”

“Because I’m going back to sleep and you’re tired,” she says simply.

“Do you have a goodnight message for the fans?”

“I will literally shoot you.”

The screen blacks out again.

Thomas swipes at it, hoping that whatever he does, it will stop the videos playing. He’s seen enough. He doesn’t want to know this girl – he knows better than to torture himself the way Connor is. He hands it back, feeling the weight of Frypan’s eyes on him.

“Thanks, Connor,” he says. “She seems great.”

He’s honestly not sure. Clearly her coma is hurting a lot of people, but she also seems hardened by the world; guarded and with a certain ‘devil may care’ attitude. She reminds him a little of Brenda and absently he wonders if they might have gotten along. But what he really thinks of her isn’t the point here.

Connor cradles the screen and offers a sad smile. “You’re welcome.”

He turns and heads away, starting off the next video.

Thomas hears a new, male voice, say, “Captain’s Log; Flynn and Claire are still arguing about who gets to strip the engine. Kimmi, Jobe and I really wish we had a pack of cards but hey; at least we have a camera. How’s it going, guys?”

Claire’s voice replies, “Dale, have you ever been knocked out with a catalytic converter? Because I can make it happen.”

And then Connor is too far away for him to hear anything else.

“What’s going on, Thomas?” Frypan asks him, voice quiet, like he’s not sure this is a good topic to broach at all.

Thomas swings his gaze back over to him, non-plussed. “Nothing,” he says, frowning at his friend. “That’s the girl that’s in a coma. Connor isn’t really handling it.”

“And you?”

Thomas sighs, picking up, finally, on the wary edge in the tone. “I feel for him. I don’t think she’s going to wake up.”

“Newt would tell you to be careful, you know that, right?” Frypan checks. He’s not looking at Thomas now. His eyes gaze off into the dark, the direction Connor went, though he’s long gone from view. “Getting attached causes more grief, upsets the mission, all that stuff.”

Thomas feels the pressing weight of Minho’s absence more than ever.

“I’m not losing sight,” he says. “We’re getting Minho out of there. Ava’s going to die.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Fry shrugs with careful nonchalance. “Just said…Newt would warn you to be careful.”

Thomas pauses. He knows it’s true. It’s what makes Newt such a good leader; he’s able to see a bigger picture, to calculate risk against reward and give an unbiased outlook. But Frypan’s tone makes him look up again.

“What would you tell me then?”

A fleeting shadow of a smile passes over Frypan’s face. “I’d tell you that if everything works out and we walk away from this…this is the world we have to live in now. And thinking that far ahead may be pointless – even stupid – but it’s also all we’ve got.

“Vince wouldn’t want to be alone; he always had the Right Arm. Jorge and Brenda had their group, but they seem like they’d be fine if it were just them. Us, though? We don’t know this world; seems like our best bet would be to join up with a group like this. Which means there’ll be more Connors and more Claires.”

Thomas gets what he’s saying.

It’s a long time since they’ve done it. Maybe never. Live as part of something bigger for longer than a few days. And for all the safety in numbers, it really is just more people to lose.

They’d be stupid to try to survive alone, though; the handful of boys that are left of the Gladers. And if they do find a group – even if they returned to this one – there will always be another small child who has to learn that their world sucks.

There’ll always be another accident, another attack that leaves people torn apart like shrapnel in the aftermath, whether you lived through it or not.

“Guess I’m just saying to be careful, too,” Frypan says after a moment. “But not to block it out, either. We’ve got to have something to live for.”

…

“One more day,” Vince says, two days later. “Lili’s going to stock us up with food and one of the spare tents, but they can’t spare the fuel for a truck.”

Frypan’s knee was probably the worst injury between them. Cleaning it out and giving him some antibiotics prevented an infection setting in, so now they’re just waiting for him to be up to walking long distances again.

Thomas nods in acknowledgement of Vince’s plans, tugging the collar of his jacket up against the sudden rush of grit that sweeps up the street.

The sun blazes down and the sand catches in the wind. The loose flaps of tarp and torn fabric snatch towards the sky and everyone in the camp moves about slowly, shoulders hunched and eyes shielded. If they’re smart, they’re hiding in the mess hall or elsewhere in the factory.

“Head off at dusk?” Jorge checks. His eyes catch Thomas’ own, but then slide over to look at Vince, who nods.

It’s a careful choice. Travelling at night is better than travelling by day which carries higher risk for heat stroke, dehydration, hallucination and being seen. But Cranks seem to be more active in the evening hours, too. In the end…at least they have more energy to fight back if they aren’t also burning up.

Thomas zones out of the conversation as it tapers off. They’re used to moving on by now; there’s not much to discuss other than the when. His eyes catch on three figures that duck out of a tent some way down.

He recognises Jobe; tall and lean in his usual combat gear. His hand grips the unmistakable shape of a shovel.

Adrenaline spikes in his chest with no warning, so sharp it’s almost painful. The rush under his skin is unexpected and unwelcome. But still, Thomas stands up, striding away from the Gladers, barely feeling Newt and Frypan’s eyes on his back.

Neither of them follow him.

…

The infirmary is unchanged. A teenager sits in a cot with an annoyed expression, scrapes up his arm, but Thomas bypasses him for the bed at the end where a crowd has formed. There’s a still, broken feeling in the stuffy air under the slanted tarp. Under the smell of antiseptic there’s the tang of salt and loss.

There’s Lili wearing a tight, tense expression and a pretty brunette with her hair bound back in a high ponytail and eyes glassy with tears. Doc Spence holds a stethoscope in a fist. An exhausted looking woman with a head of dark curly hair has both arms curled around her own waist, like she’s holding herself together. Thomas instantly guesses she is Connor’s mother.

It feels like the moment balances on a thin edge.

“Still a three,” Spence says in a low tone.

Lili nods stiffly, lips pressed tightly together, and when her eyes land on him approaching, she looks surprised; startled, like she’d blocked out the rest of the camp.

“Thomas,” she greets. Her throat sounds thick but she doesn’t move to block him or guide him away. “Everything okay?”

He shrugs it off with a distracted nod. “Yeah, what about her? I saw Jobe with a shovel.”

The brunette girl covers her mouth with a hand and tears spill over her cheeks, silent but without end. Lili hugs her with one arm as she says, “We don’t bury our dead. We burn them; it’s safer. Jobe and the boys; Dale and Flynn are packing up one of the trucks. They and Kimmi are heading out on a raid tonight.”

It seems sudden and without warning, but realisation comes in swiftly.

If they’re going to let Claire die, her team won’t want to be here afterwards. They’ll want to be away and have a chance to mourn - what little chance this life will give them.

Which means they’ve made a choice.

Lili reads his expression. Squeezing the brunette’s shoulder, she nods once.

“What about Connor?” Thomas asks, his heart going out to the little boy without his consent. He remembers the kid walking away, holding that tablet two nights before, clinging to the grainy, recorded footage on it.

“He’ll get to say goodbye,” Lili says, voice cracking at the end. “This is his mom; she’ll be with him and as soon as they’re back, Flynn might be able to help.”

Thomas nods to her, unable to summon any more words.

“I’ll get the injection prepared,” The man with the stethoscope says, backing away quietly.

Thomas’ heart pounds hard, just once and there’s a feeling like cold water rushing down his spine. His skin itches and he feels foreign inside it.

Of course they won’t just take her off the drip and slowly let her starve away. They’ll help her; end it painlessly.

Which is ironic.

There’s really nothing painless about this, and now he feels sort of stupid; it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know her at all – the fact still is that there’s a person in that bed who’s perfectly healthy, other than the fact that she won’t wake up. There’s a person that these people are going to euthanize, because they have no other options.

He feels sick to his stomach, and a dizzying rush of sympathy for Connor.

He’s too young to understand the nuances of the situation; to really grasp all the little things, which has left him with just the bigger picture.

Claire saved his life and because she can’t wake up, they are going to kill her.

Something that is infinitely complicated for a grown person to grasp is just that simple to a six year old.

A hand comes down on his shoulder and Thomas startles.

Looking up, he realises he’s sunk onto the cot beside Claire’s. Kimmi, Spence and Connor’s mom have all gone. Lili stands above him. Her smile is watery and barely there; a pitiful attempt.

“What’s a three?” Thomas asks, remembering what Spence said when it looks like she is struggling for words.

“It’s a grading on the Glasgow Coma scale – it’s an old thing; really old, but still practical,” it still sounds like she’s talking through a raging head cold. “A three is the lowest score a person can get. It means there’s no response at all, to anything – not voices, light, touch or pain. When Flynn brought her back she was a three and she’s been the same ever since.”

“That means there’s no chance?” Thomas asks.

Lili’s breath shakes as she breathes out and she’s not quick enough to blink back the tear that spills over her cheek. “People have come back from a three,” she says. “They’ve come back from a three after years in a coma. But we’re not living in that world anymore. This is why it’s hurting them so much; Flynn especially. Before the Flare there would have been huge ethics and moral debates on this. It would have been a very harrowing court case. But we don’t have a court, or a judge.”

She squeezes her hand and he feels the pressure of it on his shoulder distantly, like its happening through cotton wool or on another plane of existence.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t have stayed under better circumstances,” she says, though they both know that better is a bit of a far off wish at this point. “You may have liked her.”

“She swore a lot,” Thomas says. And it’s random; there’s no train of thought that brought it up, but he’s almost glad for it when Lili laughs, looking shocked that she was still capable of it.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Connor showed you the videos, huh?” She nods vaguely at a table in the corner. “Claire didn’t really do cameras, but Kimmi found that a few days ago – just before you all arrived. The boys have seen it, but she’s saving it for Connor. It might help him.”

She shakes herself, pats Thomas’ shoulder a final time and heads away. “I’ve got things to do. Try not to dwell; we’ve lost people before, and we’ll lose many more.”

She looks like she wishes she could follow her own advice.

…

Claire is fading into a ghost before their eyes.

She seems to be losing colour. Her skin is paler, the hair that was once a warm blonde looks washed out; reminds him more of the platinum colour that Sonya’s had been before WCKD took her away.

Her breaths are still even, but they’re slow; her chest barely rising with each one. She’s not cold, but not exactly warm either, when he gently reaches out to touch her wrist. No movement behind the eyelids; no twitching in her fingers. She’s here but already gone. Just beyond reach, maybe.

Thomas can’t bring himself to talk to her, though.

He didn’t know her and he feels like talking to her is crossing some kind of line.

Instead, his eyes dart to the table where a small video camera sits. Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s picked it up and sat down on the cot again. The casing is silver, but scratched and chipped – probably by sand. The fold out screen has escaped mostly unscathed, though, and it’s easy to work out which button turns it on and which one plays back the last recording.

Thomas entirely forgets that he wasn’t going to watch anymore videos.

There’s a scrabbling sound and the picture jostles before settling on Claire. She’s holding it herself, clearly sitting in the roll bar jeep and the landscape spreads behind her; open, flat, vast and shimmering under the dying sun. Even in the sepia tone of the footage, her colour looked far better then; hair and scarf being lashed to the side by the wind. For once she’s close enough to the lens that Thomas can see her eyes are a bright cerulean blue, so sharp and clear it’s almost unnatural. It’s the smile that gets him, though. Until now, she’s been exasperated and amused, snarky and annoyed…but here she’s smiling quietly, honestly.

“It feels like such a crazy thing to do,” she begins. “To be sitting here and recording one of these – an ‘if you’re reading this’ letter – but hey; everybody has to die one day, right?”

She looks like someone who hasn’t realised her own future is just weeks long at most; not years.

“But you know…this world; I mean, it sucks. But it is ours. It’s not the world we thought we’d grow up in…so I guess this message isn’t what I thought it would be either.

“‘If you’re watching this, I’m dead’,” she says, ironically, before laughing and shaking her head at herself. “I just hope I went out with a bang. A ball of fire or a building falling down. If I died tripping over a rock or because Dale shot me well…that’d suck more than the world right now.”

“But me? I’m not worth mourning over. I died. Suck it up. Light me a nice bonfire; make sure Jobe gets totally blitzed and I hope someone blows up a toaster at the party. That’s me done. See you on the other side; but no offence – I hope it takes a fucking long time for you to meet me. As for you guys; I have instructions.

“Flynn gets my rifle. And if you ever lose her, I will haunt your ass. Same goes for if you try to saw off the barrel. She’s a Winchester; not one of your homemade shotguns. Kim, my machete is all yours. Be nice to him; keep him sharp and I hope he saves your life one day. Dale, I’m not giving you jack; you have enough crap. Jobe, don’t replace me with an asshat. I still get to be the biggest pain in your ass, even if it’s from the grave. All of you; make sure you clean up the Jeep. Often. I’m not there to bail you out if she goes bang on a raid. Always take an extra pack of rations and never light a lantern inside the tent. If you hear noises in the dark – send Dale out. He’s expendable.”

The smile on her face falls. Her expression becomes something…else. Something Thomas recognises; knows, but cannot name. Something soft, full of affection and honesty and heartbreak. Almost like she _did_ know how little time she had left, even if there was no way she could.

“You guys are family. And you were the best thing to happen to me. And you’re gonna be just fine. ‘Burn me with a bullet in my heart’,” she seems to quote from memory. “‘And I’ll see you in another world’.”

Her eyes sit, steady into the camera for a moment; bluer than they should be, given the wrecked colour of the recording. There’s a small, sad, warm smile. Then the video cuts and the screen goes black.

Thomas looks up over it and takes in the girl; this shadow of her, laid on the bed.

It isn’t a choice at all; this one they have to make. It’s not a choice. Realising that is like being suffocated.

“It’s impossible,” a voice says, and for an instant, Thomas thinks it came from his own head. But he twists on the cot, taking in Flynn by the flap at the entrance of the tent. He hesitates and then approaches.

He’s a mix of contradictions. His steps slow and cautious, like he’d rather be anywhere else, but there’s a yearning in his expression that says all he wants is to be beside this girl.

“You ever heard the Romeo and Juliet story?” Flynn asks, not looking at him but at Claire’s still face.

Thomas frowns.

He knows Flynn said they weren’t like that, but what with his past being a total blank before the Maze, he only vaguely knows the story – A forbidden love that ended in tragedy on both ends – and he doesn’t see how it relates right now.

Thankfully, it seems like Flynn doesn’t need his input at all. He picks up Claire’s hand. His thumb brushes against the inky marks of the birds; scattered across the broken bars of music; a mournful, reverent touch.

“In the worst versions, just before Romeo takes the poison, Juliet wakes up, or moves, or something. But it’s too close and he drinks it a split second before he realises he didn’t have to.”

Thomas holds his breath, feeling like his mind is being pulled open as he realises what Flynn means.

“I’m terrified,” he finishes. “That we’ll take out the drip; that Spence will give her the injection, and even if we wait a while, if we had just waited another split second, she’d have woken up.”

…

Connor doesn’t take it well.

Thomas is sitting with Newt, Frypan, Harriet and Brenda just inside the broken wall of the factory when he hears the little boy’s wails of grief.

He kicks and cries; battering his fists over Jobe’s shoulder as the tall man carries him away and into the sunlight. His mother follows just two steps behind, her tears silent and her sobs held in with a hand held firm over her mouth.

They bypass the groups of people quickly but the damage is done. The people know what the outburst means.

In their wake a solemnity settles in, heavy and contagious. The clamour of voices and conversation drops to stilted murmurs and more than a few faces look up, gazes distant as their minds fill in the blanks about what will be taking place in the Infirmary in just a couple of hours.

Thomas lowers his gaze, feeling his interest in their conversation fall away like sand through an hourglass.

Right now Connor is a little boy and he just hurts because this person he’s learned to look up to is going to be gone forever. But one day – and Thomas wonders when, if, and how far away – the pain may turn to guilt. He hopes it doesn’t come, because all he’ll know then is that he’s alive because this girl saved him but gave her own life for it.

Being a survivor carries its own kind of weight. It’s hard to be the one that’s left alive when the dust settles.

Thomas would know.


	2. The Pyre - Ending 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned - this chapter contains arguably brutal, graphic scenes of euthanasia of a person. Its not intended maliciously, but it isn't meant to be sunshine and daisies, either. It is a difficult topic at the best of times and while not a long scene, you should read at your own discretion.
> 
> If you want to read the overall story but would rather avoid the specifics of that moment, the scene in question is the second segment of the chapter, between these line breaks: ...x...  
> You can read around it if you want to. An overview of that scene is in the notes at the end for those who choose to skip it.

**Ending the First.**

 

Frypan goes early to get his knee signed off with Spence and takes Thomas with him. Nothing gets past Newt, who just nods; knows exactly why they’re leaving ahead of time, and turns back to Jorge.

Newt has distanced himself over the past couple of days.

Thomas doesn’t take offence. He thinks he knows why.

He knows there’s something about Newt’s limp that he hasn’t been told, and he knows the way his friend’s face changes when he’s faced with a choice that means someone lives or dies. Sometimes they aren’t choices at all. Thomas remembers the guarded look in his eyes when he said okay ‘do it’ about a WCKD syringe over Alby’s body. It feels like yesterday and ten years ago all at once.

He remembers the stillness; the absoluteness in him the day he handed Winston a handgun and said goodbye.

Maybe it’s to do with the limp and a choice he did or didn’t make before Thomas knew him. Maybe it’s nothing to do with that at all.

All he knows is that since Thomas found himself asking questions about a comatose and broken girl, Newt has steered well clear of the topic and of the Infirmary.

Newt has already had to make hard decisions. He’s already had to grieve and move on. He’s already had to make Alby’s choice for him and facilitated Winston’s.

Thomas won’t ask him to go near this one.

He can’t explain why he himself gravitates to it.

…x...

Thomas and Frypan are both sitting on one of the cots in the Infirmary, watching from all the way across the room when it happens.

Spence checks her heart, and whatever he hears, he shakes his head at Lili. A broken sob escapes her before she can clamp down on it. Kimmi folds into herself and Flynn’s arms band around her, pulling her tightly into his body so she can fall to pieces. Jobe’s face falls, eyes pinched shut and Dale just begins shaking his head, pacing in the tiny space left to him.

Spence disconnects the oxygen tube, removing it from Claire’s face, pulls out the cannula and presses a band-aid to the puncture point. He sets a timer on his watch.

“Now we wait,” Lili says softly.

Spence leaves them clustered around Claire’s bed and comes to check Frypan’s knee. It’s scabbed over nicely and is still clean, if a little tender. He tells him he’s good to go.

No one says a word when they stay anyway.

“Why the wait?” Frypan asks, cautiously, as though not sure his question will be welcome.

Thomas remembers Flynn's words; the fear laced in them, and he knows.

Spence checks his watch. “Lili wanted to give her a few minutes, just to see if her body would fight back on its own once the support was taken away. This isn’t like turning off life support; she’s breathing on her own, but she’s also slowly shutting down because we don’t have the equipment to keep up with her metabolism. That and we just don’t know what’s actually going on in her head and why she won’t wake up.”

He looks over at the group with a measure of reluctance. “If we leave her like this, she’ll waste away. Starvation is one of the most painful ways to die. For all we know…she’s been in pain all this time. There was only so much morphine or codeine or whatever else we could scavenge that we could justify giving her. And then we stopped anyway, just in case the drugs were keeping her under.”

Clearly they weren’t.

Frypan swallows hard, eyes full of shadows as he gazes at the group. Thomas bites back on his tongue, feeling that swell in his chest that he’s slowly become used to over the past few days whenever this topic comes up.

Across the room, Claire is as still and silent as ever. A sharp and harsh contrast to the girl full of sunlight and laughter and cuss words in the sepia videos scattered through camp.

Already gone. Already a memory.

Spence turns for the syringe of clear fluid sitting in a battered, stainless steel dish. He offers it out to Flynn.

Kimmi, breathing in hitches and sobs, pulls away so that he can take it. Dale is there in an instant, arm around her shoulders.

“You came here together,” Lili murmurs, her words only just loud enough to carry to Thomas and Frypan. “You’ve known her longest. Do you want to…?”

Flynn looks at it for an instant like it’s a cobra; one that’s already bitten him, rather than one prepared to strike; like his world is folding in on itself in his chest.

He takes it; approaches the cot; glances back at the others, who can do little more than nod. His attention turns down and Thomas gets the impression that Claire is all he can see anymore; barely breathing and so still.

Flynn’s hand trembles. The tendons in his arm stand out and it’s surprising the syringe doesn’t shatter in his grasp. It’s the first time Thomas has actually seen him cry.

The tears spill, thick and fast. His legs give out and he folds to the floor beside the cot, the syringe shaking as he tries to force himself to plunge it down.

Thomas finds his mind thrown back to a moment in the Glade; shrouded in night time, darker than anything that seems to touch the planet out here, and the way his own hand hesitated, holding a vial of blue fluid over Alby’s poisoned chest.

But it was different then.

Alby would have died anyway. That vial was a chance at saving him.

This syringe means Claire is dead. Right now there’s a chance. Flynn’s actions won’t bring them hope; they will kill whatever shreds of it are left.

His head bows close to hers, arms folding into her frame as he hugs her once, tightly, despite the lack of response. His words are too quiet to make out, but Thomas sees his lips form them.

He tries again. Fails. Can’t force himself to do it. He scrambles back, shaking violently and pulling at his hair as he distances himself from the syringe which rests alongside the tattooed birds; like notes coming to rest. The end of a song.

Spence nods, compassionate even as the others tremble at watching his pain. The Doc picks it up, thumb poised.

And then he jams the needle into her chest.

It sinks right in; sickening despite the silence and lack of blood.

Flynn collapses into the side of the tent, knocking aside a table which clangs deafeningly, not loud enough to block out the cry tearing from his throat. Jobe moves in to grasp his arm and hold him together. Pointless. Kimmi screams into her hand and Dale has gone solid, his knuckles white on her shoulders. Lili crumples into the corner and her vacant stare is a horror all of its own.

Thomas is frozen. His heart pounds hard, sharp and deafening; pulse in his ears. The vertigo and nausea spiral inwards, clawing at the cage of his ribs until he feels hollow. It’s like his blood is rushing the wrong way through his veins and his bones are freezing him out, as if they’re made from dry ice.  He finds himself being shoved away from the scene by Frypan, who’s face is a mask of gritted, second-hand pain.

…x...

Newt doesn’t ask when they return.

Nor does Jorge, Brenda or Harriet. Vince’s jaw sets and he pours everyone a shot of whiskey from a musty bottle.

Thomas barely registers the fire that pulses down his throat.

...

When the sun has gone down, Lili and Jobe wheel out a rickety table. On it is what looks like an old projector, but it’s clearly been through the wars. The casing has been pulled open and a mess of cables and frayed wires spill out like it’s been gutted.

Still, it works, and Thomas guesses that was the point.

He and the Gladers sit at the flap of their borrowed tent as the community around them gathers near the shelter of the factory. A grey sheet has been draped over the opening of the blown out wall and videos play onto it.

The projector is temperamental at best; the picture shudders routinely, and that’s without the buffeting of the sheet in the breeze. But the jerry-rigged speakers, sitting in the sand at odd angles, have a firmer grip on life, and the sound comes through steadily.

Claire didn’t like being on camera, Lili said, but there were a good handful of video snippets anyway. Flynn had been recording their journey before they found Lili’s camp, and there were more after then.

In most of them she’s telling people to turn off the camera and get on with their jobs. Often she’s swearing at Flynn or Dale. She was hardened by life; practical, brutally honest, somewhat trigger happy and a touch reckless. But she laughed, and she made the people around her laugh.

The people who had stayed to watch were still; faces stained with tear tracks but smiling in that detached, far off way.

Thomas spots Connor. He’s curled into his mother, eyes huge and shaking with the force of his sobbing. He’s too young for this. But the Scorch doesn’t allow for a childhood; it doesn’t discriminate and it was only going to be so long before he would have to survive his first loss.

Thomas feels for him, all the same.

The last video flares to life.

Someone holds the camera in the back of the now familiar roll bar Jeep. It’s held low, just peering from behind a seat. Jobe is on the right, arms folded and an expression of stern annoyance on his face.

Claire stands before him, smiling serenely, rifle slung across her shoulder and sunshine blonde hair being tugged from its braid by the wind, which can be heard howling through the speakers.

“I’ll consider it,” Jobe is saying.

Claire snorts in clear derision. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were taking applications. Do I have a lot of competition for the job?”

The person holding the camera – Dale, it sounds like – sniggers.

“Yeah right,” comes Kimmi’s mutter. “No one’s wanted to join a raid team for months.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Claire says, lightly, amused, when Jobe doesn’t respond and his face gets darker. “You let me swear as much as I Goddamn like – Its not like I have a mother to kiss with this mouth – you let me fix that engine, because heck knows you haven’t done a stellar job, and you don’t tell me how I do and do not live my life. That goes for whether I brush my teeth in a way you don’t approve of, or whether I choose to blow myself up for no other reason than I want to make a loud bang.”

Recorded Jobe’s expression twists. His arms are crossed as tightly as ever, but it looks like he dearly wants to smile. A few people in the camp chuckle and Dale nudges Jobe himself.

“She was a pain in my ass,” he says, fondly.

“And what do I get out of this deal?” The Jobe in the video asks.

Claire smiles, shrugs. “Me,” she replies. A laugh goes around camp; a wave that quickly dies out. “I’m a good shot, I’m good with a blade, I’m faster than you and, frankly, I don’t knit, or cook so I’m wasted back at camp.”

“Humble, aren’t you?” Jobe asks ironically.

“No. Honest,” she replies.

“You’re a loose canon,” he shoots back.

“Only a little,” she quips. “I might grow out of it.” But her expression changes, becomes something serious. “I don’t have a death wish,” she says flatly. “And you need me. If you think you don’t; I’ll go.”

There’s a beat.

Jobe’s posture relaxes and his arms unwind to rest on his hips instead. “Fine. But-”

“Get to the buts later,” Claire says. “Move over; if I don’t fix your engine right now I’m going to get cranky.”

The projector stops ticking and they’re left looking at a blank, slate grey sheet.

Some of the leftover crowd cheer, some are still laughing weakly. A couple just walk away and the rest raise their drinks – a mismatch of tumblers, tins, jars, canteens and chipped mugs – in a toast.

…

The Jeep is gone less than an hour later.

Jobe, Flynn, Kimmi and Dale aren’t due back for a while. They spent the most time with Claire; when they weren’t out on raids that lasted days or weeks, they were hanging out together at the camp. Even if Flynn found Kimmi here, Thomas remembers how lost he looked, sitting beside that cot, holding the pale hand between his own, and he knows that’s not something you can just walk away from. A piece of him died when they killed Claire.

Jobe, Kimmi and Dale will be back. Flynn may not return at all.

No one talks about the modest pyre that was lit late at night and still burns the following morning, smoke pluming into the air and ash swirling into the tents.

There’s no room for anything fancy; no time to really mourn.

The dead are burned and the living have to keep going.

Lili waves them off in the same place they met her; next to that huge, broken wall that opens onto the sand dunes, and then turns her attention to clearing up after the wake. She collects bottles, uprights stools and hands out consoling words to the people who approach. She does it all looking like she’ll shatter if someone touches her wrong.

She’s probably exhausted but Thomas wouldn’t be surprised if she were afraid to sleep.

Claire was loved here.

He wonders just how long, in this broken, scorched world, the ghost of a dead girl can linger in the people she left behind.

**-End-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for those of you who didn't want to read the exact scene of Claire's death, the gist of it is:  
> The camp could no longer support her comatose state. The medication/assistance they had was removed and she was given time to see if she would come around on her own. She didn't. The Doc prepared an injection to let her slip away painlessly and quickly. Flynn - as her oldest friend - was given the opportunity but couldn't go through with it so Doc carried it out. The story then picks up with Thomas and Frypan returning to the group and the rest of the chapter proceeds.
> 
> There is one more chapter to come - the other intended ending, and vastly different - and it will be posted tomorrow. Thank you to all those who gave this a chance and want to see it through.


	3. The Return - Ending 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...no euthanasia in this one. But warnings that this chapter does include: Talk and use of guns and shooting, possibly graphic descriptions of PTSD, emotional and physical trauma, quite likely unhealthy psyches, children with weapons and character death, some brief others more graphic. (For the most part its people you won't miss, but there are a couple of brief mentions about lesser canon characters. Sorry for that, but it's war).
> 
> This chapter starts immediately following the first one but spans a greater amount of time and continues after the end of the assumed events of the Death Cure (I've not read the book). The focus is on the before and after, and the canon events are really not present at all and in places knowingly diverged from.
> 
> This ending completely disregards the ending in Chapter 2. Both endings are entirely separate but also both equally 'official' in my eyes.
> 
> Which do you prefer? Why? Does one feel more realistic?

**Ending the Second.**

Flynn drops by their tent the following morning.

He looks weary and haunted, but with a gritted jaw that tells everyone not to question it. There’s a Colt AR-15 slung over his back and his hazel eyes find Thomas between Vince, Harriet, Newt and Frypan.

“I need to shoot something,” he says. “Coming?”

And he leaves.

Thomas throws a glance around the others, but Vince just shrugs like he’s not sure what the sane answer is and Harriet gives a supportive if sad nod. So he gets up, squeezes Newt’s shoulder and pats Fry on the back. He picks up his own gun; a battered Colt 1911 pistol and follows. 

Flynn has only half waited. He’s several yards down from the tent, but moving slowly. When he sees Thomas emerge, he stops to let him catch up. Then they’re moving at a brisk pace, between tents, back to the factory and through the crumbling rooms to the far side where he’s never been shown before.

Dale is already there. He’s holding a thickset black pistol between both hands and firing rapidly down the cavernous, concrete grey room with something like desperate aggression. He doesn’t stop or blink as Flynn and Thomas enter.

“Targets are spaced out,” Flynn tells him shortly. He looks like he’s breaking apart at the seams, held together only by sheer force of will. “We’re not possessive; shoot for however many you want, wherever they are. You know how to shoot, right?”

In the Scorch, almost everyone carries a weapon, regardless of whether they can actually use it. The question doesn’t offend.

Thomas nods.

“There’s ammunition back there.” This time he gestures to a bank of wire cages behind what’s clearly their firing line. They’re full of guns and boxes of ammunition in all kinds of states and bearing all kinds of brands; clearly scavenged from numerous raids. A line of boxes have been set to one side.

Flynn moves away, swinging his rifle down off his shoulder.

Thomas speaks before his brain can bite the question back.

“Why did you ask me to come?”

Flynn hesitates. Even staring at the back of his head, Thomas can practically hear him swallow hard. He throws a glance at the floor, to his side, and the tension in his profile is hard to look at. Beyond them, Dale fires another round viciously.

“Because it felt like the thing to do,” he says carefully, like he’s testing the words even as he says them. “Because they took her off the support this morning and I can’t just sit and wait.”

And suddenly, Thomas feels a lot like shooting something, too.

His gun feels alive in his hand; warm, buzzing with unreleased energy, the trigger so close to the line of his index finger against the guard. He feels the weight of the grip; a full magazine and the first bullet already chambered.

He gives Flynn a sharp, tight nod and heads to the firing line without another word.

…

He loses track of the morning.

His first magazine empties and the colt’s slide locks back within what feels like seconds. Even though he felt like he was barely aiming, it was Paige’s face that swam before the targets, and rage that fuelled him. She’s not directly responsible for Claire – but she is at the root of everything that’s happened. She has Minho and Sonya. She brainwashed Teresa – or something – he isn’t clear on exactly what happened on that mountain; doesn’t like to think about it.

He hadn’t realised quite how much the rage and the desperation and the fear had bottled up inside until now. Not until he was standing in an open room with a gun in his hand and a go ahead to pull the trigger on his demons.

The grouping of shots is accurate enough to make Dale pause and Flynn to give him a nod that manages to impart something like respect.

They swap guns.

Thomas wants to ask how the camp can afford to waste the bullets, but he keeps quiet. As far as he can tell, they have more than enough considering its just raid groups that arm themselves, and it’s more than likely that special allowance has been made, given what’s happening in the infirmary.

Flynn shoots his 1911 and Thomas takes a Remington that Dale passes him. The assault rifle packs a punch and he feels the first recoil in the bed of his shoulder – a kind of welcome impact that’s grounding – before he adjusts to the kick.

When they run through their bullet allowance, the sudden silence in the hall is ringing.

It feels like coming out of a kind of haze. Its only then that Thomas really registers the state of the targets; an assortment of foam blocks speared on iron rods, shop-front mannequins with missing limbs or faces, boards made from ply or MDF and tacked with grids or traditional bullseye circles. They were obviously damaged before he ever arrived, but the three of them shooting in tandem has left its mark. The Remington rifle has shredded up whatever it’s touched, Dale has landed nearly nothing but kill shots and Flynn’s tight groupings have left pieces of board and foam laying about like shrapnel.

They take their guns back; lock up the cages and leave. Back near the opening of the factory, the sun is blinding, heat rising in visible waves from the sand. It feels entirely separate; like he’s been in another world.

Flynn and Thomas shake hands. Dale fist bumps him. Then the two of them are splitting off – each in different directions to cope with the rest of their day in whatever way they can. Thomas remembers Chuck – not the first time he’s remembered him since what happened in the control room of the Maze – but the first time in relation to Claire, and he doesn’t envy them.

Whatever peace they’ve gained from the therapeutic shooting won’t last forever. Thomas almost wants to ask after Connor, but he decides he’d rather not know. If anything, he’ll only be worse today than he was the afternoon before.

Thomas returns to his tent, a strange mix of exhilarated, exhausted and fiercely, corrosively angry. He can still feel a humming beneath his skin, like the loaded gun is still in his hand.

WCKD is responsible for this. For all of it.

The others are there. They’re leaving that evening and so they’re making an effort to sleep now, while the sun is high. They need to adjust back to a nocturnal clock. Frypan, Harriet, Brenda and Jorge are all out; curled or sprawled on their bed rolls but dressed with their packs in easy reach. Vince is cleaning his gun, propped against the centre support and he doesn’t look up. Newt is gazing up at the rippling fabric overhead, expression somewhere between blank and serene. He glances Thomas’ way.

He must see the burning in his expression, because he doesn’t try to speak. He nods once and Thomas reads it for what it means.

They’re ending it.

…

“Move, now!” Vince shouts, ducking under the flap into the tent. “Bags. Come on; let’s go!”

Thomas jumps, scrambling to his feet, only a half second faster than Newt, who is instantly at his shoulder.

“What’s going on?” Thomas asks, lifting the ratty backpack he’s been using even as he speaks. The tent is full of stuffy air and golden light – it’s still day time.

“WCKD. There’s a hover drone headed this way. Video capture technology. It’ll ID anyone. I figure you don’t want to bring them down on all these people?”

No. He really doesn’t.

Thomas nods tightly and then he urges Frypan ahead of himself, gets jostled along by Newt and they’re running from the tent, up the homemade street and into the shadow of the factory ruin.

Lili is waiting there.

“Here,” she pushes a bundle into Brenda’s hands as she skids to a stop at Thomas’ elbow. “It’s just a few bandages, antibiotics and things; just what Spence could spare. Vince picked up some food rations and Jobe has ammo – he’ll show you a route out the side.”

She rests a hand on Thomas’ shoulder for an instant. He feels its weight slightly less than he feels Newt and Frypan’s eyes on him.

“Take care, okay?” she says, voice low and spun with steel. “You do what you set out to do; get your friends back. I hope we’ll see you again, Thomas.”

Not sure what he can even begin to say, he nods.

Then Jorge is tugging at his jacket, Vince is beckoning them after him, cocking a shotgun as he goes. There’s no time and the questions he wants to ask – what about them, if they’re spotted? Can they hide, evacuate? Do they plan to stay? Claire? What about Connor? – evaporate into the space of things left unsaid.

They leave behind the camp in bright sunlight, quickly, quietly and with no warning at all.

…

Days pass.

The days bleed into weeks, which pour into months.

The world doesn’t know seasons anymore, and no one seems to even know where to find a calendar, let alone live by one, so there’s no way of knowing the date.

They travel constantly. Living as a nomad is hard in any life, but especially so in the Scorch. Sometimes there are sand dunes and they sink in to their knees with each step. Sometimes there are vast salt flats that burn through the soles of their boots. The horizon is never-ending; blue sky that shimmers with blazing heat and mirages up ahead, no matter how far they walk.

They destroy WCKD.

They walk away from the rubble and debris; smoke billowing into the sky, black and thick enough to choke. The ground is still on fire and the spilled blood bakes dry.

That’s another story.

Teresa loses her life in the fallout. Thomas thinks he misses her; but its grief in a detached way. He misses who she might have been to him in another life; before the Swipe. The girl he knew betrayed him, and even now she’s gone, he doesn’t know how to see them as the same person.

Newt gets infected.

Thomas thinks for two solid days that his world has imploded all over again.

He forgets to eat; can’t make himself sleep; isn’t sure how he’s meant to survive this.

Newt tries to leave. Frypan screams at him for two hours. Newt screams back. Brenda yells at them both; showing off her own brutal bite mark as she does. Thomas feels sick with relief as he remembers enzymes and injections and how his blood saved her life.

Newt stays.

It’s Vince, of all people, who helps Thomas to harvest the enzyme from his own donated blood when they raid a clinic one night.

Sonya isn’t the same.

She’s alive, and she’s still in there, and on the good days she’s fine. On the bad days her mind goes somewhere she can’t be reached. Harriet has to hold her tightly as she trembles and cries from the nightmares that follow her into waking hours. It wouldn’t be so bad, but these demons are things she has already really lived through.

Aris never made it out, and Sonya never said as much, but Thomas thinks she saw what happened to him.

She fights off going to sleep so hard that she passes out randomly. But she wants to get better; doesn’t want to give up, so she fights back, a day at a time. She can’t sleep alone; hasn’t touched a gun since they found her, but she’s working her way back to living.

Minho was always one of the strongest people Thomas had ever known.

He sleeps, restless but solid for two straight days when they escape, fingers curled around the grip of a Glock handgun.

He tells Thomas, Newt and Frypan what he went through just hours after waking up. He talks about the dormitories, full of boys and girls, all immune. He talks about the testing – being hooked up to everything from polygraphs to electric chairs. He tells them about them being moved around in groups like cattle, from the labs to the mess halls to their bunks. He tells them how the guards would take one boy a night; their screams filling the halls, wild kicks futile, and how they were never heard from again.

He talks about breaking out with another boy – a stranger – one night to follow the guards. He saw them harvesting blue fluid, direct from their brains with eerie tubes and machines before he was thrown into a tiny box of a room as punishment. The tale gives Thomas flashbacks to more than a year before when he witnessed the same thing with Aris. He doesn’t know what would have happened if they’d been found then – would Janson have tried to explain it away? Or just shut them in a box?

They gave up all pretences after the fire fight in the Mountains all those months ago. WCKD wanted their antibodies, and they no longer cared about keeping that quiet or providing a false sense of security.

Minho tells them that he suspects Teresa tampered with files to keep his turn from arriving day after day.

There are shadows in his eyes that don’t quite fade. Unlike Sonya, he’s rarely without a gun, and he’s quick with it, too; a near perfect shot; lethal. If he feels safer holding it, Thomas isn’t going to take that away from him. He gets tired quicker than he used to, and there are tremors in his arms when exhaustion sets in.

He spends weeks being angry at himself for this; for feeling weak.

Frypan screams at him, too. They let him know he isn’t in a box on his own anymore.

Like Sonya, he wants to get back to who he used to be, and it seems the screaming works, because he turns his anger into determination. He starts fighting for those pieces of himself that he lost.

…

They’ve been working their way across the Scorch; travel by night, camp by day, for three months, or four, before they get to the part of their story that involves Lili’s camp.

Sonya, Minho and the few others that made it out and stuck with them listen quietly, days in a row, as Jorge talks about receiving the transmission and the journey then the factory and the tents. Vince talks about Lili and Jobe. Frypan talks about the Mess hall.

Thomas can’t bring himself to talk about Claire at first.

She died months ago.

He still carries the memories; faded with time, blurring at the edges, but there; persisting. The washed out blonde spill of hair on the cot; how lost Flynn had looked, holding her still hand and the way a tiny child holding a plywood sword had planted himself in front of her like he could ward off the Reaper himself.

They rushed away from the camp the day Lili had decided to let her go. They were long gone before it happened.

In the end it didn’t much matter that he didn’t really know her. She was right, in that video she had left – her own ‘if you’re watching this’ letter – this was their world; a screwed up one that was barely hanging on. The needlessness of her loss was just one more spark to the fire that drove him back to WCKD.

She had been a lesson in grief. There would always be someone else who died too young, too soon, and it would always be the people left behind who had to live with their ghosts.

…

Thomas does tell Minho about her though.

It’s the day that Vince suggests they go back. Safety in numbers, not to mention an open invite and job roles that would keep them occupied; make them useful. It may not be forever, but it was a start, and better than living like this.

So they actually dig out a compass and plan a course. And when they start a campfire at dawn in the shade of a crumbled building, Thomas tells Minho everything.

About this stranger who died long before her body was gone, but lingered long after it burned away.

…

The days that long started to roll together seem to come back into focus when they decide they’re aiming for something.

Weeks that used to pass in a messy blur of PTSD and exhaustion - Minho, checking his gun was under the pillow, and Sonya screaming herself from sleep - have structure again.

They walk at night. They’re careful to keep to less populated areas, but when they run into Crank Nests – and they do – they fight at each other’s backs and no one gets left behind.

They eat at dawn and dusk. They set fires in hollows in the ground and make sure to kick sand over them when they move on.

They sleep in shifts; groups at a time; never in the open.

It is exactly sixteen days from when they decide to return, to the evening they crest one of the dunes and there it is.

The factory; crumbled at an angle in the sand and the cluster of mismatched tents and tarps down one side of it. Lanterns and flashlights shine out like tiny fireflies across the distance.

Nowhere has ever felt like home, but this place may not be far off.

…

The quiet is chilling.

It speaks of things too terrible to think of.

The tents flap in the wind and grit sweeps up between them. The desert is reaching into the ruin of the factory, seeking to claim it back while there is no one to stop it. The paths worn thin from sand by regular walking have been buried again, any footprints long gone.

“Check the tents,” Vince says tensely, cocking his shotgun. “Be quick, be quiet. If the cranks came through this place then there may be some left. But watch who you shoot. Move.”

Thomas swings his own gun down from his shoulder. It’s an M16 semi automatic military assault rifle, heavy, the black casing glinting under the sun. He took it from the corpse of a WCKD soldier just moments before finding Minho. The bullets are very real – entirely unlike the pulse blasts or electrified ammunition that the guards carried when they first escaped. Just another clue they’d stopped pretending.

Newt raises his own rifle, an AMD-65 that oddly suits him, gives him a terse nod, and they move away as the group splits up.

There’s a torn hole in the back of the first tent and it’s full of sand. There’s no one there, and nothing left in the wreck that’s worth taking with them.

The second tent looks like someone grabbed what they could and ran; there’s only a few scattered possessions left, knocked like skittles on the floor.

The third, fourth, fifth and sixth tents are no better. The eighth is entirely collapsed.

In the ninth tent, a Crank, far past the Gone, looks up over the greying body of someone very dead and screams at them.

It’s a warbling, insane cry; torn out of a voice box that’s been rotting away.

Thomas shoots him point blank.

The emaciated form crumples backwards silently, a splatter of blackened, poisoned blood already clotting on the sagging canvas wall behind him. The semi automatic doesn’t pull punches. So close up, the bullet shredded the man’s skull; bone fragment and brain matter thick in the sand.

Thomas’ heart thunders in his chest and his breaths come short and sharp, adrenaline spiking like needles rushing in his bloodstream. Newt stands at his shoulder; his own rifle still raised. Thomas was just a fraction faster; didn’t want Newt to have to shoot a man who could easily have been himself, if things were different.

They stand over the bodies, unsure how this became their life.

The barrel of a gun presses into the space between his shoulder blades.

He stops breathing, lets his fingers loosen on the grip of his rifle. His blood suddenly feels like ice water. His jacket is thick and rough, but he still imagines he can feel the sight leaving a perfect imprint in his skin.

“You just shot Gary.”

It’s said lightly; carelessly. It might be called teasing, but there’s no humour or irony in it. The words are casual; even the tone, but Thomas still gets the distinct impression she’s saying ‘there isn’t a good enough reason why I shouldn’t shoot you, too’.

And Thomas recognises that voice, although he knows he’s never actually heard it from the source before.

He slowly tries to turn.

The barrel presses into his spine harder; a warning. Instead, he drops his gun and holds out his hands. Newt is fixed next to him. He sets his gun down, too.

“Is Lili alive?” Thomas asks.

Nothing moves for a beat, but he feels the ripple of hesitation like its something tangible in the air. The moment balances on a fine edge.

The gun draws back.

Thomas turns.

She’s slim, even a little underweight, which is usual in this world but she holds the Winchester rifle with steady hands and stands in desert gear; close fitting clothes and boots the colour of sand. Her skin is tinted golden from hours in the Scorch; the blonde hair the colour of sunlight, spilling in loose waves and tangling with the long scarf draped around her neck.

The blue eyes are startling in the stagnant air of the tent.

There are broken music bars and the silhouettes of lost birds tattooed along the tendons of her wrist, visible beneath her torn and threadbare sleeve.

There’s a beauty to her here, now that she’s so very alive, that was washed out and faded all those months ago when all he knew was her ghost.

Very clearly, she didn’t die that day.

“Claire?”

Thomas doesn’t realise he’s spoken for an instant, and then her eyes flash – surprise, alarm, impulse. The gun snatches back up. The sight levels between his eyes and her finger curls around the trigger with purpose, but she doesn’t squeeze.

The flap of the tent is thrown inward.

All eyes turn to it and Thomas almost sinks to his knees – it might be relief – when he recognises the boy who storms inside, his own gun held down to the ground and his hazel eyes already levelled on Claire’s. Light brown hair, longer than when Thomas last saw it, stubble on his jaw and the faded scar over the bridge of his nose. 

“Stand down,” Flynn says. “They’re okay.”

Claire gives Thomas a reproachful look, the gun steady for a moment longer, before she lowers it and turns away.

“Who the fuck _are_ they?”

Flynn half smiles and meets Thomas’ eyes. “Allies.”

…

“You actually made it?” Flynn asks, as they duck out of the tent. “Is it…” he looks past them, up the remains of their makeshift street, like he’ll be able to see WCKD in smoke just beyond, or Ava Paige being walked along in chains as a prisoner of war.

Like he’ll be able to see anything more than the open, empty desert that is all that remains of Earth.

“Is it done?”

Thomas nods. “It’s done.”

In the end, he hadn’t killed Ava Paige himself, though not for lack of commitment.

Janson had killed Mary a year before – cold and careless on that mountain where she died in Vince’s arms – but Thomas shot him when a gun fight broke out by one of the labs. Lots of people had fallen by then, and it had been an act of survival, but Thomas still felt like he’d taken revenge from someone else’s hands when the tall man crumpled to the floor, blood, bone and soft tissue on the wall behind him. So when they broke into Ava’s office, Thomas stood back and handed Vince the gun.

Either way, she is dead and WCKD is gone. All that’s left is learning to live in the fallout.

Flynn nods at the news and Claire steps up, inserting herself into the gap between him and Thomas. She’s no longer guarded and blazing; she trusts Flynn’s judgement when he calls them allies without hesitation or clarification. “So you’re the group that showed up at the Fort when I was knocking on Heaven’s door?”

Flynn snorts. “Like you’d go to heaven.”

She shrugs it off, easy, smiling into the sun. “Better not to die.”

“This is them. Thomas and Newt,” Flynn confirms, gesturing to each of them. “Dale saw the girl – Brenda? – head the other way.”

“Sorry I almost shot you,” Claire says, and though Thomas is pretty sure she is sorry, she just tosses the words out with a small shrug.

“Who was Gary?” Thomas finds himself asking.

Flynn grimaces just slightly and Claire glances back where they came from, something sad and yet already distant flickering briefly through her eyes. “Part of Lili’s construction team. Lost his kid a couple of years back.”

It’s a little harsh, the fact that this man Thomas shot – his life for theirs – is reduced to this, but it’s not surprising either.

“What about you?” Thomas says instead of pushing that topic. He’s watching Claire; the way she keeps pace with them easily despite the deep sand as they trudge back towards the broken factory. The Winchester is slung over her back, traps the shredded cloth of her scarf beneath the shining barrel. She’s not very tall but the loss of weight aside she looks healthy. If he didn’t know for a fact she had been so close to leaving the world, he never would have guessed it. “When we left they were saying…How did you…?”

“Wake up?” she finishes, unflinching. Her eyes are sharp; bluer than the sky. “I don’t know.”

“Doc took her off the oxygen and drip,” Flynn supplies. “Lili wanted to give her some time to see if she’d come around on her own. We don’t really know what happened, just that she sort of seized and when it was over, she was responsive. She didn’t really wake up for another few hours, but she wasn’t a 3 on the Coma Scale so there was reason to hope.”

“I slept a lot, the first few days,” Claire takes over. “Needed help eating, moving around or getting dressed. I couldn’t lift a gun for a while; my hands shook after just half an hour of work and my legs wouldn’t support me from one side of camp to the other. Moving around in the Jeep made me nauseous. My chest felt tight whenever I was in the sun and my head would buzz whenever it got quiet. I was almost always hungry but felt ill after two bites. It took a month for my appetite to level out again.

“I only have fragments of what happened. I remember going into the building, I remember jumping into darkness and I remember my hands on the fire door – slamming it closed between me and Flynn. For nights I woke up freaking out, reliving things I didn’t remember – just impressions. Screams, white noise, phantom pain and burning under my skin. I still don’t remember everything – I don’t know if I want to.”

She has PTSD.

Not unlike Minho or Sonya or any of the others they rescued from WCKD.

“I didn’t have any memory of Connor at first,” Claire continues, slightly softer. “It took weeks for memories of that day to start coming back. Flynn told me who he was, and I never told him I didn’t recognise him. “

“And now?”

It’s Newt who asks.

Thomas’ gaze jumps over to him, slightly surprised. His friend looks trapped somewhere between sympathy, hope and desolation. It’s an odd combination and Thomas is instantly reminded of the day, months ago, when Newt broke down and told them about how he got his limp.

The circumstances are different. Despite the fact that Newt regretted it seconds later, he had jumped with the sole purpose of trying to take his own life. And yet, maybe he sees something of what he went through in Claire. After all, he would have dealt with a similar kind of recuperation in the Glade; learning to use his leg again, put weight on it, manage menial tasks and reintegrate into a world he nearly left.

Claire looks over at him, considering, and though she can’t possibly know Newt’s own past, she replies with a gravity borne of understanding. “Now he’s learning everything he can so he can join the raid groups when he’s sixteen. He fired a Sig yesterday for the first time and was inches off what we deem a lethal shot.”

Newt’s eyes shutter. Thomas’ steps falter and he wheels on her in surprise. “He fired a gun? He’s six years old.”

Claire’s expression is flat, unashamed and fierce. “Seven. And better late than never.”

She’s daring him to argue.

Thomas considers it for a beat.

His memories of Connor have stayed with him; that young boy with sun-bronzed skin and dark hair who held a toy sword like he imagined a hero should, not like someone who’d ever carried a real weapon and intended to use it. He remembers the determination with which he’d guarded a stranger’s body, the reverence with which he’d held the grainy footage of her. He’s sorry for the childhood that boy never had. He doesn’t think he’d have the strength to put a firearm into hands so young, but who’s really to say what’s right or wrong anymore? Besides, weren’t some children taught to shoot young long before the Sun Flares if they lived in the wilderness anyway?

They were going to euthanize Claire; isn’t handing a child a gun, teaching him to use it in the hopes it’ll one day save his life wildly preferable in comparison?

What place do ethics like this have in the broken, scorched remains of this world?

Thomas doesn’t argue.

He nods, tersely, once, and Claire returns it, like she realises he’s concluded the same thing she has.

Flynn lets out a breath next to them. It’s a quiet exhalation, but Thomas realises their conversation has been weighted since it turned to the time of the coma. They shake themselves from the shadow of it.

Thomas almost wants to tell her he's glad she survived - mostly for Flynn and Dale and Lili and everyone else she would have left in broken pieces. But it feels like a redundant thing. Instead, he glances across to her rifle again, and vaguely remembers her recorded voice. He nods to it. "Flynn didn't get your rifle, then," he comments, not a question so much as a dry, tentative statement.

But she laughs. Its a sound he didn't expect; genuine, free. Her shoulders curve and the mirth reaches into her eyes as she looks up at him - he's almost a head taller than her - and she's patting the gun strap as she quiets herself down.

"Not a chance," she says. "Have you seen him shoot? Nope, she's staying with me for a long time yet."

Thomas can't help the smile that tugs his mouth in reply. It feels foregin - smiling - even now, after everything's over. They've lost so much. And yet this girl nearly lost her life and she laughs like its easy. Maybe its a defence mechanism - he can't tell; doesn't know her nearly enough. But he didn't expect it. The girl in all those grainy videos was different; not cold but armoured somehow, like she was steel underneath the skin and bone; had to be. The real one, walking with him, Newt and Flynn is softer, warmer, damaged, maybe. Who of them isn't? And yet she's a kind of reassurance; that if she can come back from what she did, then Minho and Sonya and the others - they can make it back, too.

For the first time in a long time, it doesn't feel dangerous to have hope.

Thomas shares a glance with Newt, sees the brightness in his brown eyes that isn't madness or fear and the second smile comes easier.

Flynn, entirely unoffended on Claire's other side, raises a hand, fingers to his mouth, and whistles.

The noise is piercing. It cuts through the howl of wind and roar of swirling sand.

Another whistle answers him; two sharp notes, the last lilting upward at the end.

Flynn jerks his head. “To the wall,” he says, shifting direction. “Everyone else is there.”

…

The others have been rounded up.

They all look battered and world-weary. The few of them that are left of the WCKD victims, the handful that braved the scorch to get them back, and the team of Raiders from Lili’s camp.

Vince shakes Jobe’s hand when he appears, but Sonya flinches at the sight of him and Harriet grasps at her wrist, as though by reflex alone. Behind her, Thomas sees the way Minho’s hand twitches, a craving to reach for the gun that he keeps, pressed into the small of his back.

Brenda, arms folded tight and expression exasperated more than anything, stands with a hip cocked. Kimmi is beside her, wrist slung over the butt of the shotgun that balances across her shoulders. Jorge sits on a sand-blasted wooden crate in his thick coat, idly scratching his beard. Frypan and Dale are both holding machetes loosely in their dominant hands.

“You lived,” Jobe says to Thomas, in place of a greeting, when Flynn and Claire lead them up to the group. He doesn’t sound surprised, and yet there is something like marvel in his voice.

Thomas nods, a little too preoccupied once more with the ravaged remains of this pocket of civilisation. He’s seen it enough; he knows what happened. “You were attacked.”

Jobe nods sadly back, and says without further prompting, “Cranks. A large group of them. It was like a plague.”

The grief burns for an instant, but Thomas is too wrung dry to mourn for long. “I’m sorry,” he offers uselessly.

Jobe accepts that all the same and asks, searching, “What do you plan now, Thomas?”

Thomas’ eyes dart across his friends. Vince holds a breath in his chest visibly and nods once. Jorge tips his head; Brenda raises an eyebrow. Frypan and Newt look at him, patient and waiting. Minho’s expression is fierce but solid and Sonya’s eyes spark with steel, her hand tight on Harriet’s.

Thomas turns back to Jobe. “We figured you could use us.”

A bright smile breaks across the man’s face.

“Lili’s emergency plans were able to save and relocate most of the camp,” he says. “We lost many, but more made it out. Supplies are low and we’re rebuilding. There has been more talk of travel – a place called Paradise, where there is no Flare.” His gaze turns out, catches Vince’s. “We can definitely use you, Friends.”

Claire rocks her shoulder into Thomas’ as she moves around him, throws him a smile as she goes. “This one’s a good shot,” she tells Jobe.

“We know. You’re the one who slept through their first stay,” Flynn points out, following her. “Gary’s DOA,” he adds to Jobe. “Want us to ride ahead and let Lili know?”

Jobe nods. “Tell them to prepare food and tents.”

Thomas watches as Flynn and Claire move for a familiar looking, sand-blasted Jeep, sitting behind the line of ruined tents, almost lost in the haze of heat rippling up from the ground. They walk together, heads tilted close. The ease between them speaks of something kindred; family.

Jobe levels his gaze on Thomas, who meets him solidly. He smiles again; bright, like the sun and whistles. The noise cracks through the air. Heads turn all around and the group clusters. A ripple of energy pulses outwards.

“Let us take you to the survivors. Move out!”

**-End-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned briefly at the very start, this was about story writing tools. A small note on that:  
> There is something in writing called a posthumous character. This is a person who is absent (usually dead, hence the word) from when a story begins, and everything you learn or know about them during the story, is second-hand. You never get to see this person doing, saying or thinking things in the present. Instead you come to know them entirely through what other people say about or remember of them, through flashbacks, letters, videos or whatever else they may have left behind. As many people probably know, this isn’t usually an unbiased, open look at a person. People remember the parts they want to. They remember the people they’ve lost in shades. This is something I wanted to play with.
> 
> Everything you learn about Claire in the first two chapters of this story is from the things and the people she left behind. Thomas never meets her for himself.
> 
> I just really felt like this was something I wanted to explore, not only personally, as it’s a tool I’m fascinated by, but also because I feel like this is a world where this would be quite prevalent. The scorch is no easy place to thrive, and there are going to be thousands more stories like Claire’s out there – people left behind to grieve and newcomers who only learn about them in stories from the living. The world Dashner created fascinates me, and it's far bigger than Just Thomas, Newt, Minho, and WCKD. I wanted to venture into that. Its a story that wasn't meant to necessarily be easy to read (perhaps I should be worried about how easy it was to write). Thomas seemed the right person to tell it, though.
> 
> But there are two endings, which I think were an in-built part of this. It asks more questions than if I were to simply give you a finite conclusion. I wanted to ask questions about the world; how it operates, what becomes of people, morals and the human condition when the worst happens? I also wanted the juxtaposition of the things Thomas comes to know about Claire from others, placed next to the first-hand opinions he can form when he meets her himself.
> 
> In one, Claire dies. In one, she lives. In both, people suffer and struggle. I feel like generally the second would be the happier – the preferred – ending. I wanted to write that for me, and for her. But mostly, I’m really keen to know which my readers actually prefer. And why.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who has taken the time to read this story, and read it this far.
> 
> Eventually I'm sure I'll write a Maze Runner fanfic that isn't all darkness and kicked puppies :)

**Author's Note:**

> Two chapters will follow almost simultaneously so that the endings can be read close together. In the meantime, I'd love to hear thoughts on where you think either ending could go.
> 
> I've had this written for a long while now - it was started in 2015 and didn't take long to pull together, but I've edited it a few times since and I'm finally ready to share it. Thanks to anyone who stops by.
> 
> Info:  
> 1\. The Glasgow Coma scale is a real thing. You can look it up.  
> 2\. No one knows exactly what is wrong with Claire. That's the point. That's why it's so hard. They can't diagnose it so they can't help her.


End file.
